This mark, Roddis continued while tapping the next photograph, was made by someone else entering the scene. It was made by a flat-soled leather shoe that was bought recently. We can see by the almost total lack of scars that these shoes have hardly been used at all. Even if we recovered the shoe that made this indentation, there wouldnt be enough unique marks on the sole to be of much evidential value. We would need approximately fifteen unique scars before we could prove evidentially they were one and the same.
Are you suggesting this guy deliberately wore new shoes to avoid leaving a distinctive footprint? Sally asked.
Im not here to suggest anything, DS Jones. Im just here to tell you what we found. Suggestions are your field, I believe.
Roddis moved to the final set of images. They looked strange even in the photographs. Long scars ran across the sole in all directions and appeared too thick. Roddis touched the photographs, tracing the scars with his finger.
We puzzled over this for quite a while, he told them. We ran a lot of tests to try and replicate the marks. Nothing. Then, in the absence of any other bright ideas, we tried something. We put normal plastic shopping bags around the soles of a pair of shoes and bingo, exactly the same sort of marks. Im no betting man, but Id put my pension on the fact that this mark was made by the same shoe as here- He pointed at the previous photograph hed discussed. Only now the shoe has a plastic bag over the sole. You can still see the shape of the shoe sole, and it certainly matches the other sole for size as well.
Sally spoke again. Why put bags over his shoes? Hes already walked the scene without bags, so why bother to try and hide his prints with plastic bags on the way out? The room was silent in thought.
Think simply, Sean reminded himself, break it down. They were jumping ahead-trying to guess the killer in a game of Clue before one throw of the dice. Concentrate on the basics. It made no sense to walk into the scene without covering his feet and then cover them to leave. So if he didnt do it to hide his shoe prints, why did he? Seans imagination came to his rescue, taking him back to the murder scene, looking through the killers eyes, seeing his hands as he bent over and carefully pulled the plastic bags over his shoes and secured them. Seeing what he saw. Feeling what he felt. The answer leaped into his mind.
Were trying to be too clever, Sean said. He didnt do it to hide his shoe marks. He had the bags over his feet to make sure he wouldnt get blood on his nice new shoes.
Sally picked up the train of thought. And if he went to the length of protecting his shoes, then its probable he protected everything. His whole body.
Sally picked up the train of thought. And if he went to the length of protecting his shoes, then its probable he protected everything. His whole body.
She and Sean stared at each other. Everybody in the room was thinking the same thing. The killer was a careful bastard. The killer knew about forensic evidence. The killer knew what the police would be looking for. The killer could think like a cop? Sean broke the silence.
Okay. So hes careful. Very careful. But he will have made a mistake somewhere. We havent had the lab results yet, so its too early to assume the killers left a clean scene. Lets not give this man too much credit. The odds are hell turn out to be another freak living at home with his mum, trainspotting and masturbating when hes not out stalking celebrities-probably watched too many cop shows on the Discovery Channel and now he wants to put all his newfound knowledge to the test.
The atmosphere in the room lightened. Sean was relieved. He didnt want a tense team. They mustnt already fear that the investigation could be a sticker, an investigation that dragged on and on without getting anywhere. Failed investigations felt like a contagious disease, infecting all those involved for years, limiting future career options, moves to the more glamorous Metropolitan Police units such as the Flying Squad or the Antiterrorist Teams.
He spoke again. Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?
Pretty much, guvnor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other peoples fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no parties. Sally shrugged. Sorry, boss.
He moved on. If Sally hadnt turned up any eyewitnesses, there werent any. Sean had no doubt about that.
Dave? Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.
Aye, guvnor. Weve been working through the victims address book and have got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his diary. Well track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.
So far, they all say the same thing-victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in Kings Cross though. Apparently he was relatively high end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pounds or so he charged for the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost extra if you wanted him to slum it.
His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where he lived, and weve spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.
According to Mr. Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene. Its also how he met most of his clients. Hes well known at a number of gay nightspots. Well begin checking them out as soon as. Donnelly looked around the room.
How many? Sean asked.
About five or six.
Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday night, Thursday morning?
No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday hangout.
Good, Sean said, before passing out instructions in his usual quick-fire way. Andy-you keep on the labs back. I want my results as soon as possible. Sooner. DS Roddis nodded.
Dave-take who you want and get to work tracking down witnesses who were at Utopia on Wednesday. Start with the employees. Donnelly scribbled notes on a pad.
Sally-take whoevers left and begin checking intelligence records for people who have assaulted homosexuals in the past. Not any old bollocks, I mean serious assaults, including sexual assaults. Start with the Met and if thats no good check our neighboring forces, and then go national if you have to. Sallys head nodded in agreement as she too scribbled notes. Check the names lifted from the victims address book first-you never know your luck.
Sean threw the discussion open, causing the increasing murmurs to temporarily fade. Can anyone think of anything? Have we missed anything? Anything obvious? Anything not so obvious? Speak now, people. No one spoke. In that case the next get-together we have will be on Monday, same time. I need some results by then. The powers that be will want easy answers to this, so lets find them and finish this one before it turns into a saga.
The meeting broke up as noisily as a class of schoolchildren being dismissed for the weekend. Sean walked to his office alone, closing the door behind him. He picked up a large envelope waiting on his desk and without thinking emptied out the contents. Copies of photographs of the victim spilled out in front of him. He stared at them, not touching them. He spun his stool around and looked out of the window, the sun still brilliant in the sky. The photographs had caught him off guard. If he had known they were in the envelope, he would have taken time to prepare himself before spilling hell across his desk.
Now he wanted to retreat from his world. He wanted to phone his wife, to be in touch with a softer reality for a minute or two-he wanted to hear her reassuring doctors voice. He wanted her to tell him unimportant things about their daughters, Mandy and Louise. Kate would be getting them ready for a trip to the park. He needed a snapshot of his other, better life, but he delayed a few seconds, long enough for ugly thoughts to rush his mind. He closed his eyes as the image of his fathers fist slammed into his face, the face of his childhood-hot, stinging breath growing ever closer. He pressed his knuckles into his temples and pushed the past away. Once his mind cleared, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialed the number he knew so well, praying it would be answered by a voice that existed in the here and now and not just a mechanical-sounding recording of the person he needed to hear live. Moments later the phone was answered by a friendly but businesslike voice-the voice of his wife.
Hello, she said, the pitch of her voice rising on the o.
Its me.
I guessed it probably would be-the number was withheld.
Arent the hospital numbers withheld?
Some are. For a second I was afraid I was about to get called into work for some emergency or another. Anyway-how are you doing? Sean answered with a sigh shed heard many times before. That good, eh? Is it a bad one?
Is there such a thing as a good one?
No. I suppose not.
Anyway-what are you doing?
In the park with the kids. Too nice a day to be stuck inside. What about you?
In my office looking at. . looking at some reports, he lied as his eyes fell on the crime scene photographs. He knew Kate could handle it, better maybe than he could, but such things had no place in the park with his wife and children on a sunny day.
Sorry, she sympathized, trying to read his voice for signs. Sean?
Yeah.
You okay?
Im fine.
You sure?
You sure?
He sighed again before continuing. Just. . the block the crime scene was in reminded me of. . you know.
Sean, she counseled, a lot of things remind you of your childhood-that cant be helped. Your past will always be part of you-nothing can change that.
I know, he assured her. But the memories, the images are so much more real, vivid, when Im in or close to a crime scene. Most of the time I can almost forget my childhood, but not when Im in a place like that-not when Im in a scene like that.
I understand, but weve talked about this-many times. It becomes more vivid because you use your imagination as a tool, and when you open the door to your imagination, youre going to allow some demons out, Sean. It cant be helped, but it can be controlled-youve already shown that.